


always in the twilight and shadow of your heart

by larienelengasse



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Gondor, Homoeroticism, M/M, Pelennor Fields, Romance, War, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larienelengasse/pseuds/larienelengasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enduring friendships are formed in the worst of times. Éomer learns to trust what he does not understand, and Legolas finds a close friend in the unlikeliest of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	always in the twilight and shadow of your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marchwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marchwriter/gifts).



> Written for marchwriter for the My Slashy Valentine exchange. The prompt included: Something Third Age-ish. Deadly danger. A growing threat. Finding romance in a time where there is no time for such. If you're feeling inspired towards it: Dol Guldur, Mirkwood and Lothlórien, the Elves' plans. Two capable, competent warriors.  
> Title adapted from the song Cosmic Love, by Florence and the Machine. The planning scene in the Hall of Minas Tirth is taken from the screenplay, so I do not claim ownership for that – I only made minor changes.

Third Age, 15th of March, 3019

The fields of Pelennor were burning. From the bow of the black ship, Legolas thought the vast plains looked alive, like a black swarming mass pierced through by the shining gold and umber of the Rohirrim. In that moment, Legolas was once again reminded of the valor of Men. Théoden and his folk rode willingly to their deaths that day with no regrets, with the surety of those who knew what had to be done regardless of the cost. 

Legolas turned his gaze to his friend Aragorn. He read the grim determination in the Dúnadan’s eyes as he raised his mighty sword. Aragorn too would do what was required of him, no matter the cost. 

He then looked north and saw the smoke rising from the northern edge of the Great Wood. No others could see it, not even Elrond’s twin sons. He closed his eyes. His home was burning and beneath the black cloud his father was fighting, perhaps even dying. 

Legolas then opened his eyes and narrowed his gaze. In the distance, in the black swirling mass of orcs and Oliphaunts and winged serpents he saw a flash of golden hair. The Shield Maiden of Rohan stood helmless over the body of her fallen king, her golden hair blowing in the wind, her shield and sword raised before the Witch King of Angmar.

The bravery of men was to be matched by that of women that day. 

“You ready, Laddie?”

Legolas set his jaw. “Let us bring this to an end.”

Gimli laughed darkly. “Aye.”

With a shout Aragorn leapt from the bow of the ship. Legolas and Gimli followed as they faithfully had done for many months, with them Elladan and Elrohir and the host of Dol Amroth. And behind them, the Army of the Dead flowed like ghostly water, rolling over the docks and heading for the fields.

Legolas knew not whether they would win the war, but he knew that this day Gondor would stand. This day, Sauron’s forces would be defeated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Legolas rode the fall of the Oliphaunt the way he used to ride logs that flowed down the fast moving Forest River. He held his hands out to balance, lightly jogging down the beast’s head before landing upon the ground.

“That still counts as one!” Gimli complained. 

Their game helped lighten the dark business of war. Legolas smiled and shrugged, then knocked and arrow and returned to work. Frankly, he’d lost count long ago but he continued to play to buoy the spirits of his swarthy friend.

The Army of the Dead made swift work of clearing the city and pursuing those of Sauron’s forces that fled. None would survive to see the Black Gates. As the sun reached its apex in the sky, the Pelennor was a gray haze of smoke and fog, the heat from dying bodies meeting the cool autumn air and creating a grim mist. The once brown fields were stained red, littered with bodies foul and fair alike.

Legolas caught sight of Elrond’s sons, their bright silver helms gleaming in the mist and their blue cloaks floating upon the breeze. Each time he saw them he was taken aback by their beauty and strength. They stood side by side, their shoulders touching as they prayed over the bodies of their fallen friends from Dol Amroth. 

All around him were the sounds of grief: the cries of women who found their fallen sons and husbands; the moans of men in pain; of men grieving their fallen comrades. Men wore their grief so boldly upon their sleeves, unlike his own kind that had learned to bury it deep – it was a lesson born of ages of suffering. But one anguished cry raised above all the others. He turned to find Éomer on his knees in the dirt, holding his sister in his arms as he rocked her back and forth, crying to the heavens. The man’s grief struck Legolas hard and he felt his eyes burn hot with unshed tears. The beautiful Shield Maiden of Rohan had fallen.

He knelt beside Éomer, placing one hand upon the man’s back and the other upon Éowyn’s neck. He felt the weak beat of her pulse. “She lives,” he whispered, barely believing it himself. She had killed the king of the Nazgûl and lived to tell of it – if they were lucky. He stood and quickly scanned the field for his friend. “Aragorn!” he shouted. “Help!”

He kept Éomer steady on his feet as they carried Éowyn to the Houses of Healing. Aragorn attended her, as did the Sons of Elrond. “She is strong,” Legolas said quietly. “They will bring her back.” He wasn’t sure that would be the case, but he knew the man needed to hear it. “Come, friend,” he said softly, and he walked with him into the city, following the litter that carried Éowyn’s pale, limp form.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Éomer looked at the elf that sat beside him. The fair-haired creature did not say a word, nor did his gaze wander from Éowyn’s sleeping form. He wondered if the elf loved his sister. He had not had indication of anything other than proper respect and deference from Legolas when it came to Éowyn.

“Do you love her?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper.

Legolas looked at the man and smiled gently. “No, but I admire her. She is brave and kind.”

Éomer nodded in understanding but this did not answer his question. “Why are you here with me?”

“You have become a friend,” Legolas said quietly. “You have lost much this day; many of your men have fallen, as well as your king. I only wish to offer comfort.”

Éomer looked again at his sister. “Will she wake?”

“I believe she will. Aragorn, Elladan, and Elrohir have attended her; their healing powers are strong.”

Legolas looked around the large room. It was filled with the injured. So many had died that day, yet a surprising number still lived given the odds. It gave him hope that his own home and his loved ones were safe.

“What troubles you?” Éomer asked, placing his hand on the elf’s arm.

“My home. It was under siege when this battle began.”

“How could you know this?”

“I saw it, from the river, before we entered the battle.”

“You can see the great forest from here?”

Legolas smiled a little. “Yes. All elves have superior eyesight, but mine is better than most. It was a gift from the Valar and it has served me well.”

“Can you see Rohan?”

“Not from here. Ered Nimrais . . . The White Mountains, as you know them, block my view.” He placed his hand upon Éomer’s shoulder. “Let us take some air and sunshine. You have not moved from this spot for hours. Come, leave your sister to her rest for a little while. The clear air will do you good.”

Éomer looked at Éowyn hesitantly.

Elladan approached and knelt beside Éowyn and placed his hand upon her head. “She is recovering well, my lord. You may go and be confident that she will be fine in your absence.”

A gentle voice came from behind Éomer. “I will watch over her, my lord.”

Éomer turned to see Faramir sitting on the side of his cot. Legolas stood and held out his hand. Éomer took it and followed the elf out of doors.

The sun shown brightly and the late afternoon air was crisp and cool. The banners of Gondor fluttered and snapped in the breeze and Éomer could smell the snow from the mountains. To the East, Mount Doom still erupted and the sky was dark, but to the north and west the skies were clear. At the upper most level of the city, things looked much like they had before the battle, but if one looked down, the streets and alleyways were littered with rubble. The people were washing the blood from the pale cobbled stones and clearing the streets, beginning the return to their normal lives despite how much had been lost. 

Legolas looked to the west. 

“What do you see?” Éomer asked.

“The skies above Edoras are clear. This is a good sign that life goes on there and all is safe. Your walls are high and strong, they will protect your people.” He turned to look at Éomer. “They await their king.”

Éomer took a step back. “I am king,” he said quietly. The fact had not dawned upon him until that moment.

“You are,” Legolas said. He placed his hand upon the man’s arm. “But you think you are not ready. You fear that you will fail your people.”

“I do.” He said it so quietly it was but a whisper.

“You will not, Éomer son of Éomund. I have seen you fight for your people again and again. You are brave and strong. You love them. You cannot fail.” Legolas thought of his father inheriting the mantle of leadership when he was still young. “No one ever believes they are ready, Éomer. But you will find that you are.”

“How do you know this? You are no king.”

“No, I am not. I am, like you, a warrior. But I am a prince who is son to a king who had to learn to lead when he was younger than I am now. He is a good king, wise and strong and fierce. He too saw himself as no more than a soldier when leadership was thrust upon him.” He squeezed Éomer’s arm. “No one ever believes they are ready to lead. I have spent many days and weeks with you now and I have known many kings. Trust me, Éomer. You are ready.”

Éomer had always found the elf to be an enigma. He would reluctantly admit that he mistrusted what he did not understand, but in the preceding months and weeks of knowing the friendship and valor of Aragorn and his companions, he recognized how shortsighted he had been. He had heard tales from his fellow soldiers of the bravery of the elves that had come to his peoples’ aid. He knew how many of them had fallen at Helm’s Deep and he saw them differently now. 

“Have you a mate or children?”

“No, not yet,” Legolas asked. “I am not sure I ever will. Our lives are never ending and we do not feel the need to make families, though some do nonetheless. I do not feel the desire to be a father, at least not yet. I may take a mate one day, but for now I am content as I am.”

Éomer nodded. He had much to learn about his woodland neighbors. “Can you see your home?”

Legolas turned his gaze northward. “Yes. The skies are clear now and the treetops glisten in the sunlight. It rained not long ago. The wood smells so clean after the rain.”

“Can you see your people?”

“No. The forest is too dense for me to see beyond the canopy, but the clearing skies are a good sign. I have hope that my home still stands and my father still lives.”

“What is your home like?”

Legolas smiled. “It is beautiful but dangerous. We must keep constant watch for the darkness that spreads from the south. Orcs, wargs and massive spiders live in the wood. Only our warriors keep them at bay.”

“I have heard that your father possesses some magic.”

“Some, yes. He communicates with the wood and speaks to the trees and animals that live there. He can, when he must, ask Manwë to summon the wind and rain. The Vala can bring thunder and lightening, and rain down hail when needed. My father has a close relationship to him.”

“He sounds powerful.”

“He is, but there are those who possess greater power, like the Lady of the Wood, Galadriel.”

“Describe where you live. Is it a walled city?”

“No. I live in great caves dug into the mountainside.”

“Like a dwarf?”

Legolas chuckled. “I suppose so, though our caves are not as deep and not as grand. We do not mine for the earth’s riches. We are content to accept what she yields freely.”

“Go on, tell me more.”

“The trees surrounding my home are massive, as tall as great buildings and they have strong roots. The ground is covered in ferns and moss that is as soft as any fabric woven by man. The Forest River runs swift and white and its waters are as cool and clean as any in Middle Earth. There is a bridge that crosses the river to my home, and at the end are massive gates that are imbued with magic. Only my father can bid them open or closed and they protect our people within.”

“Do all of your people live in the caves? How many are you?”

“No. Most live without, in flets built into the trees or dwellings upon the ground, but in times of siege they take refuge inside. We number less than a thousand, now. Most of my kin have fallen either in great battles or in protecting our homeland. Some have journeyed into the West like my mother. My father does what he can to protect those who are left.”

“Does he want you to have children?”

Legolas smiled and guided Éomer to sit beside him on a bench. “He wants me to be happy and free of the burden of leadership, unless I want to rule.”

“He sounds like a good father,” Éomer said. “My own father died when I was naught but a boy. Théoden raised me and Éowyn as though we were his own.” He thought back to finding his sister draped over Théoden’s body. “He loved her so much. I hope her face was the last thing he saw before he died.”

The man’s sorrow was palpable and Legolas squeezed Éomer’s knee in a gesture of sympathy. “He loved you too. He was so proud of you. I heard him talk of you often in these last weeks.” He watched a tear track down Éomer’s cheek. “Oh, my friend. You have lost so much and are so weary from the long fight. Will you take your rest now?”

Éomer wiped the tear from his face. “I cannot sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see so much death.”

“I shall sing you to sleep,” Legolas said, “and I shall watch over you. Should any bad dreams come to you, I will banish them.”

“Do you not need rest yourself?”

“We do not need sleep the way Men do.”

Éomer smiled and shook his head a little. “I feel like a child when I speak to you.”

“Do not take this the wrong way, Éomer, but to me all Men are like children.”

Éomer looked up at Legolas, who smiled gently. “How old are you?” he asked.

“I am three thousand and forty three years of age.”

“That is impossible! You look younger than I.”

Legolas smiled. “You should see my father.”

Éomer laughed and scrubbed his hands with his face. “Very well. I shall try to rest.”

Legolas stood and held out his hand. “Come, I shall take you to bed.”

Éomer’s eyes widened in surprise and Legolas laughed aloud. Éomer thought he could listen to that laughter every day for the rest of his life and never grow tired of it.

Legolas shook his head with mirth. “I meant I will walk you to your chambers. My offer to sing to you still stands if you do not find it too unmanly.”

“Yes. Of course that’s what you meant. Sorry. I am very tired, obviously.”

“No apologies necessary my friend,” Legolas said. 

Éomer took the elf’s hand and followed him to his chambers in the lodgings near the White Tower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Éomer fell asleep bathed in the warm, late afternoon light of the setting sun and to the quiet beauty of Legolas’s voice. He couldn’t describe it if he tried, nor could he describe how it made him feel. He felt safe, ensconced in the elf’s quiet strength and friendship. It was as if the ills of the world could never touch him again.

He could never speak of this feeling to his men, as they would not understand. They had all been raised to be strong, invulnerable, brave and war-like. They were soldiers and their one purpose in life was to protect their people and their lands. They were battle hardened; there was neither room nor time for tenderness outside of lying with their wives or lovers. 

The elf’s voice rose clear above the sounds of the city below, drowning out the erupting mountain in the distance and the threat of more darkness. Legolas’s voice was clearly masculine yet it was as beautiful as the fairest woman’s voice in all of Rohan. He could not understand the words of the song, as the elf sang in his native tongue. 

He was not sure how long he slept, but he felt rested when he woke. It was dark outside and the night sky glittered like a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. He sat up slowly and found Legolas standing by one of the long windows, his gaze turned upward and his face bathed in starlight.

He had never found men’s bodies or faces to be beautiful, though he had found their spirits and bravery to be such. The elf was . . . unique. Éomer had witnessed his fierceness, and his strength and skill. Legolas was as fine a warrior as he had ever seen. He rode as if he were one with his mount, was elegantly deadly with the long knives he fought with, and impossibly accurate with his massive bow. Éomer understood these skills intimately, and he had innumerable respect for the elf’s prowess. But as he looked at Legolas in that moment he also found him breathtaking. His skin looked as soft as silk, his hair the color of the grasslands of his home, his eyes as bright and shining as the stars above their heads. He was, in a word, remarkable.

The elf turned slowly and looked at him, a gentle smile curving his soft lips. Éomer wondered if he felt soft, like a woman, or hard like a man. It was difficult to discern by looking at him alone. He was lean and long limbed, his body covered with the cloth of his leggings and the suede of his doublet. Éomer could only see Legolas’s elegant and strong archer’s hands, the smooth, pale column of his throat where it rose from the glimmering silver of his collar, and his face. His face was so open and kind; it was so beautiful.

Éomer wondered if Legolas could read his thoughts because he moved from the window toward the bed. He stopped beside it, bending down and placing his strong hands on the edge of the mattress as he looked at him. 

“You are conflicted,” Legolas said.

“Aye,” Éomer found himself answering.

“You have never lain with one of your own sex.”

“No. Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Is that common, with your kind?”

“It is as common as lying with one of the opposite sex. I find I often desire females as frequently as males. Who I desire has little to do with who I am, physically. Desire lives as much here,” he pointed to his head, “as here,” he motioned to his groin. Éomer unconsciously licked his lips as his eyes followed the elf’s hand.

He returned his gaze to Legolas’s eyes. “I have known my own warriors to seek comfort with one another, but it is not like lying with a woman.”

“How is it different? Other than the mechanics, of course.” The way the elf cocked his head caused a spark of heat down in Éomer’s belly.

“They are rougher with one another than they are with women.”

“Afraid to show vulnerability and affection,” Legolas said without judgment.

“I suppose. We do not speak of it.”

“You never speak of your feelings except to profess love for a woman or rage in battle, or grief upon the loss of a loved one. I suppose I understand, though I cannot help but feel that it is unfortunate. There are many kinds of love, Éomer. Not all are easily explained.”

“Have you loved everyone you have lain with?”

“In one way or the other, yes. Otherwise, I would have no reason to give of myself in that way.”

“Have you lain with…” he suddenly realized how inappropriate the question he wanted to ask was. Somehow, this elf seemed to make him forget himself.

“Aragorn? Gimli? Gandalf? No. I love them and I love the Hobbits, but not in that way.”

“You would die for them.”

“Yes. I would die for you as well.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because your life matters, Éomer. You are important to this world. You are loved and needed. You have become my friend.”

“But you are loved and needed too. So many would grieve your loss, I among them.”

Legolas smiled at the man’s kind admission. “When my body dies, my fëa . . . my spirit, goes to the Halls of Waiting. From there, I may be released to walk again in Aman. No one knows what happens to men’s spirits when their bodies die. None have seen where you go, not even the Valar. I know I will live on, but…” He frowned. “Enough talk of death. What I want to know is what you want from me. You need but ask, Éomer. I will freely give it.”

“Why?”

Legolas reached out and caressed the unruly mane of golden hair upon Éomer’s head. His fingers wandered down and touched the man’s beard. It wasn’t as soft as the hair upon his head, but it was not altogether rough. “Because I find you . . . attractive, handsome; and because I find your spirit and your strength to be beautiful. Because I love you, in my own way.” Legolas smiled. “I can tell that you struggle with asking for what you want, but ask you must.” He lowered his hand. “I shall give you time to consider my offer.” He stood straight then walked away from the bed. 

As Legolas reached the door, Éomer said: “Thank you for singing me to sleep, and thank you for staying with me. I am well rested and at peace.”

Legolas looked over his shoulder and smiled. “I am glad of that, Éomer, Son of Éomund.” Then he stepped through the doorway, closing the door behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner was a long and arduous affair in Éomer’s estimation. 

He had risen from bed when Legolas left, gazing balefully at his half-hard manhood lazily stirring in his trousers. He bathed expediently, and then returned to the Houses of Healing to look in on Éowyn. To his pleasant surprise his sister had been awake, though just barely. She smiled at him sleepily and he held her hand between his own and thanked the Gods, Aragorn, and the Sons of Elrond for delivering her to him. 

Faramir dozed on the cot beside Éowyn’s, and Éomer had recalled the way the young Steward, for that was what he was now that his father had passed, looked at his sister. It wasn’t the way that Grima once had, nor was it the way Aragorn did. It was different altogether. It was, he had imagined, the way he looked at Legolas – like he was imagining the possibilities.

Now he sat at the long table of the king, though Aragorn was not yet crowned. Dinner was somber, as only a battle had been won. A war still raged and Sauron’s army would return. Legolas held an apple, turning it round in his long elegant fingers before biting into it and smiling at its tart-sweet flavor. Gimli ate enthusiastically, tearing meat from bone unceremoniously with his teeth. Aragorn pushed food round his plate with his fork and the twins also ate in absent-minded fashion. Éomer himself ate slowly, only taking in the food because he needed it. The sleep had helped, but he still felt fatigued and emotionally drained from the battle that ended just that morning. It felt like it had been years ago.

He needed a proper bath. He needed to cleanse his hair and find fresh clothing. The squires were already cleaning his armor and his horse was being well fed and cared for in anticipation for their next fight. All was being cared for – his men and their mounts, his sister, the people of Gondor. It was peaceful that night but everyone knew it would be short lived if they weren’t vigilant.

As he walked back toward his chambers he felt Legolas’s presence in the darkness behind him. He wasn’t being followed as the elf stayed in quarters very near his own. He hesitated at his door, glancing over his shoulder as Legolas passed him. The elf nodded good night, then continued on toward his own quarters. There was a part of him that wanted to follow, to ask for what Legolas already knew he wanted. But he went inside instead, leaning back against the door as it closed behind him.

“Damn that elf,” he grumbled. But what was he cursing him for? Being beautiful? Being valiant? Being strong? Being kind? Yes, he decided. He was cursing him for all of those things, for not being what he had always believed elf-kind to be. He cursed him for being desirable in a way that no woman ever had been to him.

Éomer slept uneasily that night. Instead of his dreams being haunted by bloodshed, a flaxen-haired warrior haunted them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Third Age, 16th of March, 3019

Éomer cast sideways glances at Legolas when he thought the elf wasn’t looking. He was growing restless both from the anticipation of what was to come on the battlefield and with his growing infatuation with Legolas Thranduilion.

He had risen just before dawn and found Legolas wandering the streets of Minas Tirith. Éomer followed at a distance, but he thought elf probably knew he was there. He followed as Legolas moved in and out of alleyways and wide avenues, stopping to talk to curious children or help move a heavy object, or just smell flowers that grew in window boxes.

Éomer thought that he had never done those things; that he had never stopped relentlessly moving toward the next battle or border that needed defending. The elf took in his surroundings and savored them. Éomer never did that. He began emulating Legolas’s behavior and found that the simple act of really looking at people and places, of smelling flowers and talking to children, of getting to know those around him if only for a day reminded him of what they were fighting for, of what they all might die for. It strengthened his resolve and gave him courage. 

He suddenly realized that Legolas was teaching him. The Prince of the Woodland Realm was teaching him part of what it meant to be a king. He thought back to his words the day before, how he told the elf that he was no king. He realized how shortsighted that had been. He realized that being king had little to do with wearing a crown or sitting upon a throne, or being granted a title. Legolas may be son to a king, but he was indeed kingly himself.

He stopped following Legolas, who never let on that he knew he was there, and found himself in the library. Minas Tirith had a library that was larger than any one building built for any single purpose anywhere in Rohan. The sheer number of books upon the shelves caused him to look about agape. Faramir, having recently been allowed to leave the Halls of Healing for part of the day was in the library, and he was well acquainted with its contents. Éomer asked him about elves. 

During his hours there, he read everything Faramir gave him on the history of the Elves. He learned from the young Steward that there were four separate races living in Middle Earth: The Noldor and the Teleri, and the Sindar and Silvan. He learned that the Sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, were of mixed elven races as well as being half-elven. He also learned that Legolas was of Sindarin and Silvan descent, on his father and mother’s sides respectively. 

He learned of Thranduil and Oropher and their roles in The Last Alliance and of how Thranduil and Legolas both fought in the Battle of Five Armies. He looked at maps that illustrated the vastness of The Great Wood and how Legolas’s homeland shrank over the years with the encroaching darkness coming from Dol Guldur. Faramir also pointed out where the realm of Galadriel and Celeborn was, more or less, and where Rivendell was, approximately. Both of the realms were in essence, hidden, but Faramir knew their general vicinity.

After leaving Faramir, he spoke with Gandalf, who told him of Legolas’s deeds with the Fellowship and how important his role had been. Then Aragorn told him of Legolas’s valor at Helm’s Deep, as Éomer had not been witness to all of his new friend’s deeds there. Gimli, of course, was happy to tell Éomer of his and Legolas’s wager regarding the body count. All of this only served to make Éomer care about Legolas more. 

The long life span of the elves still gave him pause. He could not imagine what it was like living so long. He had thought Aragorn old when he first heard how old the Dúnadan was, but even that was nothing compared to the elves. He wondered what it must be like to have seen entire realms rise and fall, indeed the entire world had changed shape during Thranduil’s lifetime. This changed how he thought of elves and he resolved that during his kingship, he would seek to forge bonds of friendship not only with Legolas and his kin, but also with the elves of the Golden Wood, who he learned were called the Galadhrim.

He sat on the steps outside the Tower Hall looking at the stars. Soon, he and the others would discuss what was to come next. His head was bursting with information and if he were to be frank he would admit to having a bit of a headache from learning so much in so short a time. 

He was formulating plans, taking a mental inventory of his men and horses and weaponry and their fitness for battle when he saw Legolas round the corner, coming from the guest quarters.

“Mae govannen, mellon nin,” Legolas said as he climbed the steps toward Éomer.

“I do not understand,” Éomer answered, suddenly wishing he could have crammed some elvish in his brain that day as well.

“It means: well met, my friend,” Legolas answered with a smile. 

“My govahnen, melon nen.” Éomer suspected that it wasn’t quite right. Legolas’s broad smile confirmed it.

Legolas sat down beside Éomer. “What occupies your mind? You looked over-serious as I approached.”

“I was trying to assess the battle readiness of my troops.”

“And how do you find them?”

“I have never known a one of them to run from a fight.”

“How many of your own men are left?” Legolas asked somberly. Many men from Rohan had fallen the day before.

“I personally lost only four men,” Éomer said. “The king…” he paused. He had to remind himself that he was king now. “My uncle took the brunt of the losses. Elfhelm lost many men assaulting the siege towers. Grimbold fared slightly better. In all, we numbered some six thousand to start and there are four thousand of us left that are able to fight.”

Legolas closed his eyes and whispered a quiet prayer for the fallen. 

The large doors to the Hall opened with a groan and Legolas looked back to see Aragorn beckoning him and Éomer to come inside. He placed his hand on Éomer’s leg and said, “‘Tis time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aragorn had gathered Éomer, Gimli, Gandalf, Legolas, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Elladan and Elrohir, and Faramir in the Hall.

Gandalf was looking off into the distance. “Frodo has passed beyond my sight,” he said quietly as he crossed the hall. “The darkness is deepening.”

Aragorn followed the wizard with his gaze. “If Sauron had the Ring we would know it,” he said grimly.

Gandalf turned. “It is only a matter of time. He has suffered a defeat, yes, but behind the walls of Mordor our enemy is regrouping.”

Gimli removed the pipe from his mouth and grumbled: “Let him stay there! Let him rot! Why should we care?”

Gandalf turned to face the dwarf. “Because ten thousand orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom.”

Gimli frowned as he drew on his pipe.

Gandalf’s expression grew grim. “I have sent him to his death.”

Aragorn placed his hand on the wizard’s shoulder. “No. There is still hope for Frodo. He needs time and safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth. We can give him that.”

Gimli sat forward. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Aragorn’s expression was one of grim determination. “Draw out Sauron’s armies. Empty his lands. We shall gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate.” 

Gimli sputtered and Éomer stepped forward. “We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms.”

Aragorn turned to Éomer. “Not for ourselves. But we can give Frodo his chance if we keep Sauron’s eye fixed upon us. Keep him blind to all else that moves.” 

Legolas smiled. “You mean to create a diversion.” 

Gimli stood and descended the steps that led to the Steward’s chair. “Certainty of death. Small chance of success. What are we waiting for?” 

Legolas smiled at his friend. 

Gandalf approached Aragorn. “Sauron will suspect a trap. He will not take the bait.”

Aragorn smiled wryly. “Oh, I think he will. I will make sure of it.”

Imrahil approached Aragorn. “It is a four day ride from here to the Black Gates, three if we travel light and swift, and we are running out of time.”

Éomer frowned. “We will not all be on horseback. By my count we number only four thousand cavalry and some must stay behind. I must send some of my men back to Edoras, to protect the city in case the Dark Lord strikes there next. The rest are infantry. Even just my riders cannot travel so swift, not when we number so many.”

“We will be drawing from the forces of Dol Amroth, those Dúnedain that remain, the Rohirrim that can be spared, and the men of Gondor that we do not leave behind to fortify the city,” Elrohir said.

Imrahil responded: “I too must leave warriors behind to protect my lands and people, but I will lend as many as I can.”

Elladan joined in: “We can gather close to seven thousand men, if my count is right.”

“You’ve already assessed our troops?” Aragorn asked.

“Of course,” Elladan said, arching an eyebrow.

“How quickly can a combined force of the Rohirrim and foot soldiers from Gondor and Dol Amroth travel?” Legolas asked.

“It will be a six day journey at least,” Imrahil answered.

Éomer sighed. “We will need to leave very soon.”

Aragorn said: “We will leave at nightfall tomorrow. Muster your troops.”

Éomer nodded, bowing his head to Aragorn, then he turned on his heel and made his way toward where his captains were housed. Imrahil and the Sons of Elrond did the same, leaving Legolas, Gimli, and Faramir behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Legolas was lying on his back in the bed, his hands folded behind his head. He watched shadows cast by the flickering candle light dance upon his ceiling as he contemplated the journey ahead. In little more than a few days time, he would be standing in front of the Black Gates. 

His father had told him tales of the place, recounting his deeds and those of his father, Oropher, during the Last Alliance. Thranduil had never romanticized the battle; in contrast, Legolas had been told of the horrors of war from the time he was old enough to understand. By the time he embarked upon his first patrol he was under no misconception of what it meant to be a warrior.

He had faced many things in his life as a soldier: untold numbers of orcs; spiders as large as an ox with a fully loaded cart; wargs the size of bulls; the Nazgûl and their winged serpents; the Uruk-hai of Isengard; cave trolls; the massive Oliphaunts from the kingdom of Harad; and worst of all, a Balrog. Or at least that had been the worst thing he’d faced – but The Dark Lord himself would soon eclipse the Balrog in the list of truly awful things he had seen.

True, Sauron was still disembodied, a fiery restless eye that never stopped searching for that which a brave Hobbit carried round his neck. But it still gave him pause. Sauron did not need form when he had over fifty thousand orcs to do his bidding. Gimli’s words had been very true: they had a small chance of success and almost certainly death was waiting for them.

He did not fear dying. What he feared was watching his friends die: watching Merry, Pippin, Gimli, Aragorn, or Éomer die. He did not know if Elladan and Elrohir had made their choice, whether they had chosen to align with elf-kind or go the way of their uncle and sister and choose mortality. Were they to fall, Legolas did not know if he would ever see them again.

A soft knock upon his door, preceded by the heavy footfalls of a man, broke his waking reverie. He knew by the gait as the man approached that it was Éomer.

“Come,” he said.

Éomer entered, closing the door behind him. He stood with his back to the door for a moment, butterflies swarming in his gut and his pulse pounding in his ears. 

Legolas sat up and folded his legs. He had removed his boots and his outer garments when he returned from meeting with Aragorn, leaving him in only a soft silk undershirt and his leggings. 

Éomer’s eyes travelled unbidden over Legolas’s form from his head to his bare toes. There wasn’t a thing on him that wasn’t beautiful; even his feet were stunning. He could see just the barest slip of the elf’s chest beneath his shirt. While he was leanly built, he was unmistakably male.

Legolas smiled at the man and patted the edge of the bed. “Come and sit. I promise I will not move from this spot unless you want me to.”

“You speak to me as if I were a skittish filly,” Éomer said, only slightly perturbed because he began to suspect that’s exactly what he was acting like.

Legolas sighed but he smiled nonetheless. “I am only trying to ease this burden you carry.”

“What burden is that?”

“Your unspoken desire for me.” He grinned and pointed at Éomer. “Do not pretend that I am wrong.”

This time it was Éomer who sighed, and he glanced at the floor before steeling himself and looking directly into Legolas’s eyes. “You are not wrong.”

“What do you want, Éomer?”

“I do not know. I am unsure of myself.”

“Are you untried?”

“No!” Éomer barked. “I laid with my first woman when I was but fourteen years of age. There have been more than a few since that time.”

Legolas nodded a little then said, “But I am no woman.”

“You are no man, either.”

“I assure you, I am as male as you are.”

“That is not what I mean.” Éomer swiped his hand down his face. “You are not…”

“Human?”

“Yes.”

“This is true. But, physically speaking, I am very, very like you.”

“What are the differences, specifically?”

“Are you to stand with your back against the door throughout this entire conversation?”

Éomer grumbled and moved to a chair that was closer to the bed.

“I do not have an abundance of hair upon my body, save my head of course.”

“So bare-chested, then.”

“Yes, and bare armed and legged, and I have no hair upon my groin and no hair grows upon my face other than upon my brow.”

“Oh.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Not necessarily. Go on.”

“I do have an abundance of stamina.”

Éomer’s eyebrows arched upward. “Meaning?”

“More than you. I can last as long or as short as I like.”

“It is utterly under your control?”

“Yes.”

“That is hardly fair.”

Legolas laughed aloud and Éomer felt the beginnings of desire stirring in his core.

Still smiling, Legolas continued. “That covers our differences. As to what I like, I like kissing, very much. I feel that it is as intimate, if not more so, than sex.”

“Kissing. Yes. I can do that. I can kiss,” Éomer said. The elf’s eyes were shining with mirth and Éomer thought he’d never seen anything so alluring. 

“So at issue here is that you have never lain with a man and you are uncomfortable with this uncharted territory.”

Éomer groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“I ask again: what do you want?”

“I do not know!” Éomer growled in frustration.

“Start small. One thing. Something easy, simple.”

“Your hair. I want to touch your hair.”

“Yes. See? That is easy. Come, touch my hair.”

Éomer moved to the bed and sat on the edge. True to his word, Legolas did not move one inch. He reached out and lifted a small piece and drew his fingers down its length. It was heavier than he expected and softer than he could have imagined. 

“Do you always wear it braided?”

“No. I take it down when I bathe, when I sleep, and when I . . . well...”

Éomer nodded in understanding. 

“Would you like to take it down for me?”

“Um, yes.”

Legolas turned so that Éomer could access the back of his head. Éomer felt incredibly clumsy as he began to unweave the braid, but once started it came loose very easily. “May I—”

“Yes.”

“You do not know what I was going to ask for.”

“Unless it is something truly disturbing, I am sure I won’t object.”

“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Legolas smiled mischievously. “A little, yes.” He twisted at the waist so he could see Éomer’s face. “I do not mock you.”

Éomer smiled begrudgingly. “I know. Just . . . be patient with me.”

“I will.”

Éomer threaded his fingers into Legolas’s hair, starting at the scalp and combing them through to the ends. “It is so soft.”

“Will you rub my scalp?”

Éomer nodded and began working his fingertips into Legolas’ scalp. The elf let his head fall back a little, and Éomer took its weight. The quiet little moans of pleasure that Legolas made caused his blood to quicken.

“That feels very good,” Legolas said softly. “You have strong hands, not that I am surprised.”

“I want to . . . touch your face.”

Legolas turned and faced Éomer. Éomer reached up and touched Legolas’s cheek, slowly drawing his fingertips to the elf’s jaw then his neck. He could see the tips of his pointed ears just coming through the veil of his hair, and he reached out and touched one of them, running his fingertips along the curve.

He watched the elf’s eyes close and his lips part slightly. He slid closer to Legolas so that they were nearly touching, continuing to slowly stroke the shell of his ear as he watched his face. He saw the slow working of the elf’s throat as he swallowed and could barely hear the change in his breathing.

“You like this,” he said quietly.

“I do,” said Legolas. 

“Is it…”

“Erotic?”

“Yes.” Éomer’s voice was barely more than a rough whisper.

“Yes, it is. The way you touch me . . . you are so gentle; it is so intimate.” Legolas opened his eyes. “Why now?”

“We ride tomorrow to almost certain death. I do not want to go to my grave not knowing what it would be like to…”

“I understand,” Legolas said. He placed his hand over Éomer’s. “You and I are of like mind.”

“You think so?” Éomer asked.

“Yes.”

“In what manner?”

“I would like it very much if you would allow me to touch you.”

Éomer nodded and Legolas elegantly unfolded his legs and tucked them underneath himself so that he was sitting on his heels. He inched closer so that his legs spread, his bent knees flanking Éomer’s own bent knee. The man sat with one booted foot on the floor and one knee bent with his leg lying open. This brought them into close proximity. 

Legolas could feel the man’s breath upon his face. It was warm and moist and it smelled of the nutty ale they specialized making in this city. He also smelled of hay and horses. He had been to the stables, most likely checking on his mount. He wore a plain, pale grey shirt made of soft cotton and over that a deep blue velvet jerkin. His trousers were also soft cotton and loose fitting – the clothes, all but the boots, were lent to him, and they were the colors of the House of the Steward, not the customary earthy tones that the Men of Rohan wore. His hair was unbound, parted in the middle and hanging down in wild waves. 

Legolas moved slowly so as not to spook the man. While he knew Éomer resented being treated like a ‘skittish filly,’ in his words, he did not want to push too far too quickly. He softly stroked the man’s hair, fingers gliding over unruly waves. It was so unlike the hair of elves, only slightly coarse and so many different shades of blonde. The hairs around his face were lighter than where they emerged from his scalp. 

He moved to Éomer’s face. His beard was wiry but soft, and was a rich sable brown and his eyes were warm hazel green. Even his skin exuded warmth, tanned from long hours riding in the sun and living rough. He had a pale mole over his right eyebrow and another just next to his right nostril. Framed by the warm brown hair upon his face were surprisingly plump lips. Legolas wanted to draw the man’s lower lip between his own and perhaps chew upon it briefly. He wet his own lips as he looked at them and he heard Éomer’s breathing quicken.

“If this is what you want, to look and touch in this way, all night, I am more than happy to oblige,” Legolas said. “But I would like you to consider—”

Before Legolas could finish, the man silenced him by pressing his mouth against him. Legolas’s hands moved to the sides of Éomer’s head and one of Éomer’s hands, the one that had been caressing his ear, slid to the back of his neck and drew him forward. Éomer placed his other hand upon the bed right next to Legolas’s hip, bracing himself as he leaned forward.

When Éomer had said he could kiss, Legolas found that was no exaggeration. The man kissed very well indeed. Almost immediately upon feeling Legolas part his lips, Éomer surged forward, his tongue delving deep and making a thorough perusal of Legolas’s mouth. Legolas couldn’t suppress a deep rumbling purr, and he wouldn’t have even if he could. The sound seemed to heighten Éomer’s resolve and the kiss became hungrier.

The man was guiding him to lie upon his back and Legolas easily complied, unfolding his legs and stretching out. He willed the heat building deep inside him to heel. Allowing full bodily expression of his desire this soon could frighten the man off. Legolas heard one boot hit the floor, and then the other as Éomer moved to lie atop him. 

The man’s hands were everywhere except where Legolas most keenly wanted them to be: they were in his hair, then stroking his arms and sides, grasping his hips, then pulling one of his legs up and squeezing the hamstring as Legolas bent his knee. It was very much what Legolas imagined Éomer was like with a woman, and while he didn’t mind the way he was being handled, sooner or later (preferably sooner) Éomer would need a reminder that he was thoroughly kissing a male.

Éomer’s touch suddenly became tentative, and Legolas wondered if the man could read his mind. Then rough horseman’s fingertips grazed his belly, teasing at the hem of his trousers. Legolas, testing the waters, slowly lifted his hips, pressing his lower abdomen against Éomer’s weight. Legolas was not yet hard, but he could easily be if he allowed himself.

Éomer slowly lifted his head and looked into the elf’s eyes. Legolas’s pupils were blown wide, the pale blue of his irises transmuted into the color of the midnight sky. The elf’s lips were wet and slightly swollen, and his cheeks flushed the warm hue of sunrise. 

“By the Gods, I have never seen anything as beautiful as you,” he said roughly.

Legolas tucked a wild lock of Éomer’s hair behind his ear and it immediately fell forward again, brushing his cheek. “Will you touch me, Éomer?”

“I am touching you,” the man said, slightly teasing. 

Legolas smiled. “You know what I mean.”

“I . . . I do not know how to do this.”

“You have one yourself.”

Éomer laughed. It was a deep, rumbling laugh that rolled up from his core. “Aye. I have one. And I have been known to . . . handle it, from time to time.”

“Then go to work, Marshal. You know what to do.”

“What if you do not like what I do?”

“I am quite capable of providing direction, should I need to,” Legolas said with a grin. He quit holding back, feeling the heat spread from his core and his length begin to swell inside his leggings.

Éomer looked down when he felt the hard press of Legolas’s length against his hip. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Legolas said.

“That is a skill that could come in very handy.”

Legolas chuckled. “I am afraid it is not one I can teach.”

“Pity,” Éomer said. He hooked his fingers beneath the hem of Legolas’s shirt and began to tug upward.

Legolas propped himself up on his elbows, and then Éomer grasped his arms, pulling him into a sitting position so he could better remove the elf’s shirt. Éomer touched Legolas’s chest, his fingers spread wide as he caressed lean muscle covered in soft, flawless skin. He rolled a nipple under his palm, feeling it harden beneath his hand.

Legolas arched his back, pressing his chest into Éomer’s hand and the man dipped his mouth to his neck. He whispered encouragement as Éomer’s hand moved lower, over the flat plane of his abdomen, calloused fingertips teasing the sensitive skin just at the waistband of his leggings. They skipped over, gently palming his erection through the cloth of his leggings. Legolas let his legs drop open and his head fall back as whispered curses in his native language spilled from his lips.

Éomer swallowed as he focused his efforts. He had never touched a man like this before, never been rewarded with such immediate enthusiasm. The elf’s breaths were coming heavier now; he could feel the heat coming through the soft suede of Legolas’s leggings, as the bulge grew harder beneath his hand. He paused his ministrations and grasped the waistband of Legolas’s pants, working them down his hips and off his legs.

Legolas lay naked and beautiful on the bed. Éomer looked his fill, ignoring the persistent ache in his groin that was growing more urgent the longer he looked at the elf. Legolas was hard, his length flushed and glistening at the tip and Éomer felt his manhood twitch in response. He pulled his own shirt over his head, and then expediently shimmied out of his pants and socks and undergarment, leaving him naked. 

He climbed up to lie beside Legolas and the elf rolled halfway atop him. 

“Let me,” the elf whispered huskily, and Éomer nodded.

He took Legolas’s face in his hands, plundering that delicious mouth as the elf worked his length with his hand. As the heat began to build between them he grasped Legolas’s back, then hip, then taut backside. Legolas had them both in hand now, strong archer’s fingers wrapped around their lengths as he rolled his hips, thrusting into his own hand and against Éomer.

Éomer could feel the muscles in the elf’s backside clench and release, his soft skin gliding against him, his hair falling like a veil around their faces and suddenly he was struck with how much he wanted to live, how beautiful the world was, how much he still wanted to do, to say, to feel. If time froze, if he could remain in this moment for an eternity, it would be such a gift.

As if the elf could read his thoughts and feelings, their kiss slowed to a lazy, warm joining of their lips and breath. 

“Never take anything for granted,” Legolas whispered huskily. “Not one moment of one day.”

“I never will again,” Éomer answered, and then he kissed Legolas with all that he had.

It was Éomer that fell over the edge first and it stole his breath before he broke with a deep moan. Legolas came soon after, his breath leaving him in a rush and a smile upon his lips. Éomer wasn’t sure how long they lay together. His own body was cooling, but Legolas was like a warm blanket draped over him and he allowed sleep to take him, his elven lover in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Third Age, 25th of March, 3019

His horse shifted nervously beneath him and he reached down and stroked his neck. He wasn’t sure how much good that would do, given that he was as uneasy as his mount. He looked to the elf for comfort, and Legolas cast a sideways glance at him. A slight nod of the elf’s head, the corner of his lips, lips that Éomer had so thoroughly kissed only a few nights ago, quirked into a wry smile, gave Éomer what he was looking for. He may die that day, but he would die in the company of the bravest and best warriors he had ever known. 

Legolas looked up at the massive Black Gates. Gimli was clutching at him tightly, but it wasn’t out of fear as much as the dwarf was just trying to stay seated on the back of a wiggling horse. Legolas murmured to his mount and Arod stilled slightly, only a slight toss of his head showed any resistance. This place was where his grandfather had died, where his father had fought and nearly lost his life, where so very many brave warriors had fallen a lifetime ago. He did not know if he would meet his end there, but he did know that this was the only choice for him – that he would do what it took to protect his friends and, if they were lucky, help a hobbit save the world.

He was glad of what had transpired between him and Éomer, and his only regret was that they only had the one night. He admired the man for his honesty, his courage, and the love he bore for his people. He knew that it had not been easy for Éomer, allowing himself to be so vulnerable to one he had only known a short time, and Legolas did not take that for granted. No one knew what had happened that last night in Minas Tirith, and they never would. That was for him and Éomer alone.

The gates groaned as they opened. Behind them came the thundering war cry of Sauron’s massive army. Legolas grasped Gimli’s arm, lowering him to the ground, then he slid off his horse, instructing the animal to move to safer ground. He thanked Arod before the gelding galloped away and Legolas hoped he’d live to ride him another day.

Éomer too released his horse, as did his fellow Rohirrim. There was no point in the brave animals dying that day, and this was not the sort of fight in which being mounted would provide an advantage. He looked at Legolas and nodded. The elf knocked an arrow in his large bow then quickly winked at Éomer. Gimli growled and raised his ax. Aragorn raised his sword and shouted, and the world descended into chaos.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue

Years later, Éomer would think about the War of the Ring and of the harrowing battles and of those they lost. 

As he promised himself, he forged friendships with the elves in the Great Wood and with those from Lothlórien. He would tell his son, Elfwine, of the deeds of his friends, especially those of Legolas Thranduilion. 

“Your name means elf-friend,” he would say to his son. And Elfwine would live up to that name, honoring both his father’s example and his mother’s lineage.

Legolas would think of Éomer often, and he visited Rohan and its king several times, the first being Éomer’s wedding to Lothíriel, the daughter of Imrahil. Legolas’s friendship with Éomer endured until the king’s death. While they were never lovers again, they were close. He remained a friend to the people of Rohan until Aragorn’s death, when he sailed into the west with Gimli and joined the rest of his kin.

Legolas sang songs of the bravery of men until the ending of the world.

~Finis


End file.
